The Nightingale Murder (The Maria Kallio Series Book 9)

by Leena Lehtolainen

  “Lulu said it was a pig’s heart. I almost puked when I saw it.”

  “According to our information, no police reports were ever filed about these incidents. Why?”

  “Lulu didn’t want to. She said she wasn’t going to be intimidated, and she had me to protect her. But then this happened . . .” Sulonen’s voice cracked again.

  I shifted the chairs in the media room around so I could put my feet up. The idea that the Russian mafia was behind Lulu’s death was perfectly plausible, but why would they have done it at a television studio, and why use poison? On the tape Sulonen gave more information about their security arrangements, including the fact that Lulu never even went to the corner store for cigarettes without him. Usually Sulonen went out alone for the cigarettes and everything else.

  “Who bought that bottle of Fernet Branca? You or Lulu?”

  “What bottle?”

  “The one in her dressing room.”

  “Not me. Lulu liked bitters like that, but I didn’t know she had a bottle with her . . . Was that what she needed the glass for?”

  Ursula didn’t reply. Instead she asked, “Had you ever met any of the people at the TV studio before that day?”

  “No. I did see a couple of them from the control room when they went in for makeup. It looked like the old lady argued with the makeup artist about her hair. And then there was that cop who started giving orders after that one lady screamed. I tried to get to Lulu, but that bastard wouldn’t let me!”

  “You really didn’t recognize Mauri Hytönen, the man you and Lulu were convicted of beating up two years ago?”

  Sulonen’s face took on a look of disbelief, and I could almost see the thoughts reordering themselves in his brain. “Lulu was dead. How could I have noticed anything after that? Was that prick there? Did he kill Lulu? Goddamn it!” Sulonen stood up, walked to the door, and kicked it hard enough to leave a dent in the laminate. “Where is he now? You have him in a cell, right? Just give me a little time with that bastard and I’ll . . .” Sulonen clenched his fists and grimaced like a weightlifter preparing for a push press. Ursula stood up and, for a moment, appeared uncertain.

  “Try to calm down. Hytönen will be interrogated in good time. But first I want to know why you lied. Sit back down.”

  Sulonen stood there breathing heavily for a while but then let Ursula gently push him into his seat. Maybe Ursula trusted that Sulonen wouldn’t hit a woman. Puupponen watched, ready to intervene if necessary. Ursula was tall but slender, Puupponen was muscular but small for a cop, and Sulonen weighed almost as much as the two of them together. And a bodyguard/bouncer might very well have better self-defense skills than a police officer.

  “What do you think I lied about?” Sulonen asked.

  “You claimed you were in the control room the whole time. But on the surveillance tape you can be seen walking down the dressing room hallway with an empty glass in your hand. Were you on your way to see Lulu? Or perhaps someone else?”

  The panic that appeared on Sulonen’s face was also a surprise to his interrogators. Sweat began pouring from his forehead again, and he didn’t say anything for a long time.

  “I never went in any hallway,” he finally spluttered.

  “The camera doesn’t lie. Puupponen, roll the tape!” Ursula said, her eyes fixed on Sulonen’s face as if preparing for another outburst of aggression. My subordinates were well prepared—the video was a great idea. I’d have to remember to praise them for that. Sulonen sighed when he saw himself walk quickly into the frame. The glass in his hand was familiar to me, since it was the same one I’d seen on the table in Lulu Nightingale’s dressing room: a thick, heavy-looking water glass. The one in Sulonen’s hand was empty.

  “There you are. What do you think, Puupponen, should we take Tero here to lockup so that he can think about whether he should keep lying to us? We can hold him for probable cause. Which one of us should call the lieutenant?”

  Sulonen shook his head, clearly trying to invent an explanation. Finally, he found it:

  “Lulu called me. Look at my phone. I can show you.” Sulonen punched at his phone and then showed it to Ursula. “See? Lulu called me yesterday at 8:58 p.m.” She asked me to bring her a glass. I asked why and she said she was thirsty and didn’t want to mess up her lipstick by drinking straight from the bottle. I didn’t know what bottle she was talking about. In the control room on the table there was a glass—I don’t even know if it was clean—and I just took it and rinsed it out in the bathroom on the way. I swear I rinsed it out! Could something have been on it . . . something that killed Lulu?”

  Sulonen didn’t receive an answer to his question. Instead Ursula asked what happened next. Her lips were parted, and her eyes shone like a woman in love. She was expecting a confession, but at Sulonen’s reply her expression turned to disappointment.

  “I knocked on Lulu’s door. She opened it just a crack, so I only saw her hand. She whispered that she couldn’t come out of her room because someone might see her, and she told me to get out of sight fast. And I did . . . and then I never saw her again.”

  So Lulu had had a bottle with her! Sulonen began crying, so I fast-forwarded. Ursula interrupted the interview and went outside, apparently to confer with Puupponen. When the conversation started up again, it was brief. Puupponen informed Sulonen that he was free to go. Sulonen exited quickly like a dog fleeing before someone kicks it. I rewound the tape and turned off the VCR.

  It was almost eleven o’clock. Tomorrow would be another long day, so I needed to go home and get some rest. Antti was probably already asleep. I visited the ladies’ room and splashed cold water on my face, ignoring that what was left of my mascara would run. Who was going to see me? Then I went to fetch my things from my office. When I’d gone to the media room, I’d left my office door open because no one except the cops in my unit and the custodian had access to the hallway. That’s why I screamed when I ran straight into a man standing in the doorway.

  “Ouch!” Puupponen said, trying not to laugh. “You weren’t frightened, were you?”

  “Of course I was!” I said, attempting to calm my breathing. I was embarrassed that I’d reacted so strongly. “What are you still doing here?”

  “Looking at porn online. What else would a bachelor be doing on a Friday night?” Puupponen grinned. “Actually, I was looking online for more info about Lulu Nightingale and that Oksana girl. Johns can find prostitutes online now. Lulu even has her own website. From which I found out, among other things, that her favorite food is oysters and her favorite drinks are Cava and Fernet Branca.”

  “Excellent! So anyone could have known that.”

  “Exactly. I also found the phone numbers for some Russian women offering companionship for lonely gentlemen. Should I call and ask around a bit? Sulonen suspects the mafia. What if Lulu knew who killed Oksana and was going to out them on TV?”

  Puupponen’s face was tired, but enthusiasm still burned in his eyes. He rubbed his chest. “I’m going to have a bruise, but that’s what I get for creeping up on you. I really am sorry.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Ville, this is your second night up. Don’t you think you should get some rest before your interviews tomorrow? After you’re done with Anna-Maija Mustajoki, you should talk to as many of these friendly Russian women as are willing.”

  Puupponen grinned. “Ursula can handle the interviews. She likes being in the driver’s seat.”

  I smiled back. “Your charm might be more effective in this case. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  The next morning, it was hard to get out of bed even though the sun was shining with the promise of melting snow. Iida demanded to have her pink tights for practice, and of course they were in the wash. And then she complained about the bun I put in her hair.

  “Antti, are you going to the library today?”

  “Yeah, I thought I might.”

  “Could you try to find Anna-Maija Mustajoki’s memoir? It came out last spring. I think it
was called Everywoman.”

  “Does it have something to do with work?” Antti took Taneli’s skates, with pieces of fabric rigged as blade guards, off their hook and put them in a tote bag. I admitted that it did, and I couldn’t read Antti’s expression when he heard my answer. “I probably won’t make it to that antinuclear power demonstration then,” he said when he saw me putting on my black pinstripe pantsuit.

  “No, probably not. I’m sorry.” I’d put on enough makeup to look presentable, and now I pulled my own hair back into a bun. At press conferences, it was best to focus the listeners’ attention on something other than my appearance.

  As I drove I thought through what I would say, and when I arrived at work I was surprisingly calm. The lab results on the glass and the Fernet Branca had come in. The bottle had contained such a large dose of cyanide that it could have killed an entire soccer team. The remaining drops of Fernet Branca left in the cup had also contained cyanide. There was no need for further speculation about the cause of death.

  About forty reporters and photographers showed up to the press conference. As I stepped in front of them, I heard one of the tabloid reporters whispering to a journalist from a local radio station. “Hopefully this isn’t another one of those information sessions where they inform us there’s no information to share.”

  I told them that we had established Lulu’s cause of death but that for investigative reasons we weren’t revealing it yet. No one had been arrested, but interviews were continuing at a rapid pace. I tried to choose my words carefully, because the media was an indispensable tool for a detective. That is, when it wasn’t our worst enemy. It depended on the journalist—some were still interested in finding out the truth, while others would rather devote themselves to chasing scoops.

  When I finished talking, a flood of shouted questions washed over me.

  “Do you know why Lulu Nightingale was killed?” asked the same local radio reporter, followed by someone from the STT newswire. “Does Nightingale’s death have anything to do with the prostitution allegations against the Russian Trade Representation office earlier this year?” A tabloid reporter asked about Lulu’s clients. For these people, Lulu Nightingale wasn’t just another anonymous dead whore. I couldn’t help remembering another press briefing I’d held around Christmastime about a homeless wino who had been killed by one of his drinking buddies. Only one reporter had showed up.

  When the press conference finally ended, I was relatively pleased. At least they hadn’t ripped me to shreds.

  I picked up Koivu at the Westend bus station and drove the two miles west to Haukilahti. The Saarnio family’s house sat on a hill set back from the bay, but when we drove up the driveway, we found that there was a view of the water. The weather was fantastic, and the ice was full of skaters, pedestrians, and fishermen at their holes. I would have liked to be one of them. A blackbird landed on a bird feeder. I hadn’t heard its trill yet, because spring was late. Every year that sound managed to cheer me up.

  I rang the Saarnios’ doorbell. Riitta Saarnio answered. She looked feeble, and it seemed difficult for her to shake our hands. Still she’d managed to put on some makeup, and she was wearing cotton trousers, a cream-colored knit blouse, and house slippers. The straight hair that extended to her shoulders was half-brown and half-gray. Riitta Saarnio seemed like one of those women who insisted on presenting a tidy outward appearance regardless of what chaos might be reigning inside.

  We were led into a large living room, and Mrs. Saarnio motioned for us to sit on the sofa. She politely asked if we wanted tea. I said thank you but no for both of us, even though I knew Koivu was always hungry and thirsty. It was clearly best to get this interview over with as quickly as possible.

  “I’m a little embarrassed I broke down like that,” Saarnio said apologetically as she set a bowl of fruit down in front of Koivu on the coffee table. He took a banana and opened his laptop.

  “Discovering a body can be a shock for anyone, even a professional,” I replied.

  “But I shouldn’t have run into the studio like that and ruined the whole show! I should have just announced that the final guest was ill. Ilari would have managed. He always does.”

  I interrupted Saarnio for a moment so that I could turn on the recorder, even though it bothered me to do so since she’d begun talking on her own. But this was an official interview, which meant we had to go by the book. Saarnio took a seat in a chair across from us. She told us that she had arrived at the studio around six, at which point Länsimies informed her that Lulu didn’t need makeup since she would handle it herself.

  “I think Nuppu was a little offended at first since she takes pride in her work. But she’s a single mom, and her toddler was sick, so she didn’t want to leave her with the babysitter any longer than necessary. Nuppu is a good, affordable makeup artist, so we try to be flexible. I didn’t mind letting her leave early. Even though my title is producer-director, I don’t always have to be watching what Ilari and the cameramen are doing. Mostly I try to make sure they don’t focus only on Ilari and the most beautiful female guest all the time, and that they remember to capture the other guests’ reactions to what the speaker says. Ilari agreed to sending Nuppu home too when I said I could bring in the final guest.”

  Saarnio confirmed that only she, Länsimies, and the makeup artist had known whom the guests were, but she claimed that Länsimies chose the topic of prostitution himself.

  “I wasn’t as enthusiastic about it. We have enough sex talk in the media already. There’s more to life than that. And, to tell the truth, I wasn’t very excited about having Lulu Nightingale on our show. I would have preferred someone who hadn’t chosen the profession quite so happily. Lulu gave such a one-dimensional picture of things—or she would have if she’d had a chance to speak.”

  “Do you and Länsimies often disagree about topics and guests? How did you two end up working together?” Riitta Saarnio and Ilari Länsimies didn’t seem like the most natural pair. I might have expected a man like Länsimies to choose some cute young thing who worshipped him as an assistant, but Riitta Saarnio didn’t seem like a mere assistant. She did own 35 percent of West Man Productions after all, so theoretically she and Länsimies were on equal footing.

  “Ilari and I have known each other and worked together for years. I’ve spent most of my career in TV documentaries, as a producer for various companies. But the last one went under after the last round of cuts at the Finnish Broadcasting Company. I happened to run into Ilari at a cocktail party, and when we were trading news, he suggested that we start our own production company. You know we don’t just produce Surprise Guests, we also have a cooking show and a series about celebrity pets. We just produce those, though. Other people do the hosting and directing. I’m really thankful for Ilari’s suggestion, because finding work as a fifty-five-year-old woman in the media sector isn’t easy, and I didn’t want to be forced into early retirement.”

  The devil in me said that the wife of Arto “Hatchetman” Saarnio would hardly have suffered from privation even if she was out of a job, but the feminist in me understood a woman wanting to earn her keep.

  “Ilari and I rarely disagreed since he wasn’t interested in only interviewing vapid celebrities all the time either. We’ve had guests like the president and the CEO of Nokia, and that’s the standard we try to maintain. Surprise Guests is a talk show designed for adults, or, to put it more bluntly, for middle-aged adults.” Saarnio gave a sudden smile, and her face was momentarily radiant. “I think Ilari wants to influence how people think, and this prostitution show was a message to Parliament. Ilari has a lot of friends there.”

  “Did you meet Lulu before the program?”

  “Once. Usually one visit with a guest is enough, but Ilari also went to Lulu’s . . . office. My meeting with her was here at our place. Appearing together anywhere public wasn’t an option because the guests have to be a surprise. Lulu was quick at repartee, and she could back up her opinions. Ilari was
happy since beautiful, smart women are the guests he prefers.”

  “Why didn’t you participate in the second meeting?”

  “It wasn’t necessary. Ilari was the one hosting the show,” Saarnio said tersely.

  “Did you see Lulu before the broadcast?”

  “Briefly. I was waiting for her at the door at eight thirty. Her bodyguard was a surprise, but I decided to let him in without asking Ilari because Lulu demanded it. The bodyguard wanted to go to the control room, and I didn’t see anything wrong with that. We don’t use it much, and it’s really just left over from when that floor of the building was a law office. The previous owner had all the security equipment installed, and we inherited it as part of the sale.”

  “Did you talk to Lulu?”

  “Just as much as was necessary to show her the dressing room. She seemed excited to have the chance to talk to such a large audience. Poor girl. Was it a very painful death?” Saarnio’s composed facade collapsed all at once, and she began to shake. “I can’t bear to think that we were making a television program while someone was dying alone just down the hall . . .” She began breathing rapidly, and it looked like the beginnings of hyperventilation. She leaned back and closed her eyes, obviously concentrating on getting her breath under control.

  “Tell us how you found the body, then we’ll be done,” I said gently after a few moments. Koivu took a plum from the bowl. Behind me I heard padded footfalls, and a large, dark-gray cat appeared. Its fur was long and bushy, and a white stripe decorated its nose on one side. The cat jumped onto its owner’s lap and began to purr. That seemed to help Saarnio finally calm down.

  “There isn’t much to tell. I knocked on Lulu’s door when it was time. When she didn’t answer, I knocked again. I peeked in the women’s restroom, since sometimes guests end up in there if they’re overly nervous. It was empty. When she didn’t answer the third time I knocked, I opened the door. She was lying there on the floor in that strange position, and her face was twisted. I knew immediately that only a dead person could look like that, and . . . Then I don’t really remember. I just had to get out of there, so I ran into the studio and . . .” Saarnio was shaking again, and the cat stood up, looking offended. It rubbed its face against Saarnio’s cheek and then curled up again.